


break your bones (bend them into stars)

by nicotinie



Series: 93 Percent Stardust [1]
Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Angst, Denial, Falling In Love, Fluff, Internalized Homophobia, LGBTQ Themes, Love Confessions, M/M, Niccolò is a tease, Will Martino EVER stop being in Denial, they're whipped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 07:37:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16698178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicotinie/pseuds/nicotinie
Summary: “You love me.”Wrinkling my nose, I say: “Too soon.”“You’ll love me, then?”I don’t know how you do this. I don’t know how you manage. To always say the right thing. To never look like you’re embarrassed by the things you say – and maybe you aren’t. To say my name like I already belong to you – and maybe I do.





	break your bones (bend them into stars)

**Author's Note:**

> i found a list of prompts on tumblr: for every letter of the alphabet there's something you should write.  
> im struggling since i kind of dont want to make this into a thing with chapters made of one shots but also do i want to clog the section for about 30 days with stuff about these two whipped assholes so that i can turn this into a huge ass collection? ah man i dont know i guess we'll see.  
> but for now. enjoy the first letter of the alphabet uwu
> 
> (prompt: a, age: do they plan on spending their lives together? how do they imagine their relationship years from now?)

 

 

 

 

 

**BREAK YOUR BONES (BEND THEM INTO STARS)**

 

1/30

A, Age.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_grow old along with me. the best is yet to be,_

_the last of life,_

_for which the first was made_

 

 

 

 

 

You sit over my bed like it’s your throne. I sit on the floor and look over at you like there’s nothing else left for me to do. Stringing the chords of your ukulele is all you’ve been doing for the past thirty minutes – sometimes you look over at me and smile. I often wonder what it is like to be in your head. To see the world from your eyes. You pull one of the strings one last time, then you’re pulling me over the mattress.  

“The fuck.” 

“Weren’t you getting cold?” 

I scoff. I can never get cold if I’m in the same room as yours – you don’t need to know that. “I’m a tough one.” 

“Are you?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re a tough baby?” 

That caught me off guard.  _Baby_. “Yes.” I say, but I’m missing a beat and I can feel myself pout.  

“Do you stand the cold?” 

“If I can stand you, I can stand pretty much anything.” 

You put on a face full of offense. You’re close but I don’t reach for you. I burn whenever I touch your skin, I pray whenever I say your name.  

“You love me.” 

Wrinkling my nose, I say: “Too soon.” 

“You’ll love me, then?” 

I don’t know how you do this. I don’t know how you manage. To always say the right thing, to never look like you’re embarrassed by the things you say – and maybe you aren’t. To say my name like I already belong to you – and maybe I do. The moment the thought crosses my mind is the moment I’m thinking yes, maybe I can. Learn to love you, learn to sit next to you like I’m the ring on your hand and not the sole of your shoe. I look at you and think I have no fucking clue how to tell you about this feeling I get every time I’m with you. Of how both safe and completely exposed I feel. Of how all these thoughts I have to carry around whenever it gets dark or too silent just go away and then come back being ten times louder.   

You kiss my nose. “You don’t have to answer now.” 

I think I want to. But I don’t know if I can without choking on my words.  

I kiss your lips.  

“You’ll give me time?”  

It’s just a peck but you seem content, surprised even. I’m surprised as well of how easier it’s getting to touch you, to ask you things even when you look gloomy and feel sad and I feel like I’m getting in the middle of something I don’t understand, to whine a bit when you stop answering your texts.  

I know you have the right to.  

I know you don’t belong to me.  

Still, it makes me wonder. It bothered me so much, at the beginning. Scared me.  

“You want time?”  

“I guess.”  

You kiss my forehead, then adjust yourself. Your back is now pressed against the mattress but you’re still close enough I can feel your heartbeat. It reassures me, for some reason. I make sure I lay my head down onto your chest. Sometimes I wonder what my friends would think if they ever saw me like this. I also wonder what it’d be like for me to let them see I get this weak when I’m around you without being even ashamed. I’d kiss you right in the middle of Piazza del Vaticano. Fuck, I’d kiss you right in front of the fucking Pope.  

“You want me to stick around, then.” 

I furrow my eyebrows, looking up from where I’m laying. You don’t meet my eyes. This is the only shield you let me see, the only shield that isn't hidden behind another one. You don’t meet my eyes, therefore I know you’re sincere. You can be human too, then, I think. You’re not a God. It’s a bit hard for me to believe that since your voice sounds like honey and your looks are made of gold. Whoever did it, took Its sweet time with you. 

“I guess,” I repeat. I’m hesitant and there’s a reason. I think I should tell you. I think I owe it to you.  

I take off of your shoulders a bit of your sadness, you help me carry around a few my insecurities. I don’t know if this is the reason that will keep us together or shatter us into pieces.  

“You know,” I start and now there’s no turning back. “When we first met and I was, you know. I didn’t. Accept it. This,” I groan. “Us?” 

You mumble – your way to tell me you’re listening, that I can go on even if you’re not saying a lot. 

Us.  

The word sounds nice on my tongue but never as nice as yours against mine.  

“I’d get mad you, sometimes. And then at myself. I’d think bad things, you know. It’s not like you tell me a lot about yourself, but you told me enough for me to act like a kid. You told me sometimes you need time. That sometimes you get sick and. I get that. I respect it, only I couldn’t help but associate it with my mother. Sometimes you’d text me after a couple of days and maybe I would be having dinner with her after, fuck, I don’t know. Three days of selective mutism? And I’d read what you had to say and get mad at her.” 

You turn your head in my direction. I think you’re confused. The afterglow hits your forehead, your features, makes your eyes shine. I don’t want to hit just yet the point where I look at you and think about the flecks in them or some shit, so I close mine, I start breathing from my mouth.  

“I’d think these fucked up things, get mad about the fact I can’t have...” I stop, thinking of a way to phrase this without sounding like an asshole. It’s getting easier, these days. Sometimes I still fall. But you’re smarter than that, you’re maybe even more of an asshole than me or maybe you know me enough already to read my thoughts, then end my sentences when I can’t bring myself to do it. 

“Like you can’t have normal people in your life?” 

I nod against your chest. You feel like home against my cheek.  

“Yes. It sucks. I’m sorry. So, I’d read these messages, yeah? And I’ve never been someone that decides when to answer a text based on how long the other person made me wait for a reply. I never cared enough. But then you’d disappear and I’d start doing exactly that. That made me think.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

“About what?” 

I repeat the answer in my head before I say it out loud. It sounds stupid even in my head. Sounds cheesy, sounds  _gay._ I don’t know yet what I am. I only know whenever you’re around I turn into a mess of sweet words and weak limbs. It sucks but then I look at you.  

“About the fact I want you to stick around,” I say, then look away.  

“Wanna get old with me?” and you’re asking it with a smirk. I love it when you do that. It makes me feel small. It makes you look like a player, like you know exactly what you’re doing and right after that it makes me feel like, for once, I don’t have to care about anything and anything, ‘cause whatever it is you’ll take care of it.  

Yes. I think I want to get old with you. It’d be nice. That, I don’t say. Instead: “I don’t wanna get old. I hope I die before I get to eighty.” 

Your eyes go wide open. “You want to die at an age where you can do whatever you want and people will most likely not complain because you’re old?” 

I blink. “ _Eh_ , actually I never thought about it that way.” 

“So, since you’ve now seen the beauty of senility. You want to get old with me?”  

Yes.  

“Shut up.” 

“Alright, then. If you don’t want to share the money of our retirement, what about a house? Wanna share that, at least?” 

“Only if it has a swimming pool.” 

At that, you smile fondly. I’m glad you caught the reference. I’m glad I don’t always have to say everything for you to get it all.  

“So that I can constantly beat you when it comes to holding our breath?” 

“I don’t mind it,” I mumble it into your shirt. Then, even more quietly: “You should, by the way. Stick around, I mean,” and I kiss you again. I swear I don’t ever get tired of it – sometimes I think I could live by feeding off your kisses and drinking your spit. Which is a thought that both disgust me and fucking intoxicates me. I was never good at being romantic and now you’re teaching me how to be in the weirdest way. Another peck on your lips, against which I say: “stick around, please?”  

“Sure, dude.” 

It takes only a moment for me to get away just enough from you and raise my eyebrows. “Niccolò.” 

“Martino.” 

“Did you just  _dude_ me, right after I fucking kissed you?” 

You smirk again, the weird dimple showing up right next to your mouth. “You call that a kiss?” you ask, and then you show me how you to do that as well.  

 

 

  

 

**Author's Note:**

> the sub jumped out @ martino
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> come at me on [twt](https://twitter.com/seesawcuIt)


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